Thank God It's Friday
by ilovetvalot
Summary: Written in Response to TV Prompt Challenge: The Office - "Casual Friday". What does David Rossi really think of the BAU ladies?


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_**Oh, and this author's note wouldn't be complete without thanking Kavi Leighanna and Sienna27 for their amazing TV Prompt Challenge. **_

**Thank God It's Friday**

_**Prompt: The Office – "Casual Friday"**_

Sitting behind his desk, David Rossi shifted uncomfortably in his seat, cursing silently as his straining trousers pulled painfully against his groin. Fucking mandatory Friday round tables….

At least he'd survived another one of those nerve-racking meetings without managing to embarrass himself. Barely. Aaron Hotchner and his damned new age outlooks on a friendlier workplace were going to put him in an early grave. Dave hated, _truly hated_, casual Fridays. And he especially hated them in the midst of the hottest August that DC had on record.

And he really, _really_ hated them when it appeared as though the ladies of the BAU were attempting to kill him one inch of flesh at a time.

He could admit it…at least to himself. He was a recovering horny old bastard. There had been a time in his life where he wouldn't have been stopped by even Hotch's stern warnings that the girls…ladies…_whatever_… were off limits. But he was older now…and he liked to think a little wiser.

And, he was pretty sure that JJ, Prentiss and Garcia could take him in a fight. It wasn't worth the risk.

But, damn! There was such a thing as cruel and unusual punishment. And forcing him into a confined room with three gorgeous scantily clad women had to qualify, didn't it? If he wasn't sure that the man would laugh in his face, he'd call his Congressman and lodge a complaint.

First, there was JJ in her well fitting khaki shorts, her taut legs going on for miles to a well formed rump that he was entirely certain that he could bounce a quarter off of. Oh, how he'd like to find out. But unlike his other two female colleagues, however, Jennifer Jareau was well aware of the effect her body had on red-blooded men across the nation. And she had no problem with using her assets to her fullest advantage. Many a menial task was performed on the sixth floor of the Federal Building every Friday, thanks entirely to Agent Jareau's affinity for well-fitting shorts. She knew it, he knew it, and Joe, the maintenance man _really_ knew it. Thanks to JJ, every piece of office equipment on their designated floor ran flawlessly, especially from the months of June to September.

Garcia's chosen apparel was no less lethal. Those colorfully contoured sundresses displayed her admirable cleavage with a tasteful, mouthwatering flair. And he was man enough to admit that his tired, jaded eyes could still appreciate the flawless beauty of a well displayed set of boobs. And Penelope Garcia had made it an art form. Over the past several Fridays, his eyes had wandered more than once over those ample curves she insisted on thrusting underneath his nose. Combine that with that lavender scent wafting from her body and, if not for Derek Morgan's dangerous glare, he might have eagerly done something decidedly politically incorrect.

Then, finally there was Prentiss. And Emily freaking Prentiss was the _worst_! Because, unlike her colleagues, that woman didn't recognize her own appeal. With Prentiss, it wasn't what you could see that was dangerous. No. Nuh uh. It was those tantalizing glimpses of skin that she accidentally offered on a regular basis. Those glimpses of bare midriff that just appeared when she raised her hand and those little cotton tees that she favored rode up, baring her alabaster flesh to his hungry, lascivious eyes. That damned woman defined sexy and she didn't even realize it. Never overt, her luscious body teased his imagination into a frenzy, causing his body to react in a most unprofessional way.

Down, boy. Down.

It had taken a full five minutes after Hotch had adjourned the meeting for Dave to finally work up the courage to rise from the table and struggle to his office. Five freaking minutes to convince his body that jumping his co-workers would not be deemed as socially acceptable office decorum. And damn his best friend to hell and back, Aaron Hotchner's dancing eyes had known exactly what these women were doing to him. His smirk had confirmed his suspicious. And somebody really ought to remind the bastard that waving a beer in front of an alcoholic was unnecessarily cruel.

Yeah, he thought grimly to himself as he stared darkly at the ceiling, TGIF had a whole new meaning here at the BAU.

_**Fin**_


End file.
